


Whitechapel Is an Altar

by Tricksterbelle



Series: Magic in the Shadows [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Gen, Jack the Ripper Murders, Just Friends, Not just a slow burn but a crock pot, Slow Burn, Urban Fantasy, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2020-12-28 22:16:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21144104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tricksterbelle/pseuds/Tricksterbelle
Summary: While the rest of London is engulfed in the shadow of Jack the Ripper, Sherlock Holmes will investigate anything else. But then the Fae Liaison Office joins the hunt, along with a familiar Officer. And it's that baffling combination of magic and murder that compels him to change his mind.





	1. An Unrequited Curiosity

**Author's Note:**

> I hope everyone's enjoying the Fae-verse 'cause I've got more of it. I've also fudged some real-life dates for the Ripper Murders for creative liberties, and probably will fudge more details. I'm not a Ripper-ologist. Just a lowly urban fantasy AU author who keeps the pertinent wiki pages open, so bear with.

Dr. John Watson, like most Londoners in the fall of 1886, had his eyes glued to the morning paper, searching with dread for more news of Jack the Ripper. The business of Saucy Jack had consumed Britain, man and woman, English and foreign, Fae and human. And make no mistake, it was a business. There were pennants, penny dreadfuls, and pins making novelty of tragedy. There were locksmiths, gunsmiths, and yellow papers making profits off paranoia. There were multiple charities claiming to aid living conditions in Whitechapel to rob the Ripper of hunting grounds, and to aid Ladies of the Evening to rob the Ripper of prey. Half of these ‘charities’ were funneling funds directly into the pockets of their founders, exposed with no small aid from Watson’s flatmate, currently fretting over test tubes across the sitting room. 

Other than the tangential charity fraud, Sherlock Holmes had taken precious little interest in the mania consuming the rest of the city. Despite all Watson’s hinting, questioning, and cajoling, Holmes had shunned any opportunity to investigate in Whitechapel. Whenever Inspectors came for a consult, Holmes avoided all Ripper conversation. Peculiarly, Scotland Yard had yet to come asking for his aid in this particular case, though Watson wondered if that was due to the presiding DI’s unfamiliarity with the consulting detective, or his pride.

Yes, it was strange indeed that Holmes had taken such an avoidance to the case of the century. And that morning, Watson caught himself staring at his friend, trying to figure out why.

“Absolutely not,” said Holmes, barely looking up from the test tubes. The staring must have been more obvious than he thought. 

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You have just finished the latest editorial about Whitechapel in The Times and have been looking at me for the past forty-five seconds with your ‘conundrum face’. It’s not too difficult a deduction.”

“I do not have a ‘conundrum face’.”

“_Au Contraire._” Holmes rounded the table to grab his cup of long-cooled tea. “The answer is still no, by the way.”

“And why not? While it is wise to wait for Inspector Abberline’s invitation, you won’t even discuss the events. These murders are the talk of London.”

Holmes nonchalantly held his teacup over the Bunsen burner with tongs. “Oh, I’m sure they are. And if you feel so compelled to discuss them, I’m sure Mrs. Hudson would love to have you for tea. But I will not be partaking.”

“So you’re not interested,” said Watson. Not a question, but a statement. A dare, really.

“I _can’t_ be interested,” Holmes replied with a huff. “And if I start talking about it, I will get interested. If I get interested, I get curious. And if I’m curious enough, I will go off investigating with no one’s permission and against one person’s exact orders.”

“Who on Earth would dare forbid you?” 

“Whitehall.” A loaded word if there ever was one. Holmes flopped on to his chair without spilling a drop of his newly warm tea and picked up the latest issue of _The Fae Quarterly_.

“Is dear brother afraid such a salacious case would tarnish the family name?” 

“More that there is some business with an ambassador’s nephew I will be needed for shortly that requires my full attention.”

Watson chuckled as Holmes rolled his eyes. “So in the meantime, I shall gossip with Mrs. Hudson, and you indulge in your latest obsession of Fae District gossip.” He kicked at the pile of papers by the opposite chair. In addition to _The Quarterly_, spread before them were multiple issues _Prospero’s Herald_ and _The Morrigan_.

His flatmate responded with A Look. “I have reason to believe there is a code hidden in the ad columns. It might be a method of communication between Fae Liaison Officers and their undercover sources, and I’ve almost cracked it.”

“And this has nothing to do with a certain Liaison Officer you met this past spring?”

The Look intensified, though its recipient remained nonplussed. “If you are referring to Officer Lefay, who has far too high a position to make social calls before you ask, she is incidental to the insight I might gain. Besides,” he folded one of the Fae papers over to a headline about a bank robbery. “for her exploits, all I need is to look to page three.”

The article didn’t go into detail about the investigating Liaison Officers, but the bruised robbers and swiftness in which their plot was foiled proved hallmark enough for Holmes. But before Watson could pry further, the quick staccato of one Inspector Lestrade sounded on the steps leading to 221b.

Lestrade paused at the door. “Might I enter, Gentlemen?”

“So long as you don’t mention Jack the Ripper,” called back Holmes without turning.

“Not an issue, Sir. I’ve had enough of him myself,” said the Inspector as he entered, handing Holmes a file. “I just need some loose ends tied up with the Turner forgery case.”

Watson offered Lestrade a light for his cigarette as Holmes read over the file’s contents. “How fares the Yard these days?” Asked the Doctor.

“Terrible. Because of this Ri- this latest business, half our other cases have gone unnoticed and under-manned. Most of the street Bobbies want to be a hero down in Whitechapel, and we detectives are stretched thin. No thanks to Frederick –This is my opus; I work alone- Abberline.”

Holmes scribbled a note to the top of the file. “Question the uncle. He’ll give the full story.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Lestrade turned back to Watson, clearly eager to finish his tirade. “And every busybody matron and thornback from here to Devon is coming in accusing their butcher or their barber of being You-Know-Who. Wastes time and resources, I say. And that’s nothing to say of all the Fae loitering outside my door.”

Watson watched as Holmes’ ears twitched. He said nothing but leaned forward to listen intently.

“Fae, you say?” Asked Watson.

“Now I’m not opposed to Fae as a people, mind you. A fine race. But there are too many crowding the hallways of my institution. And not your usual soothsayers and alchemists either. Half the entire Fae Liaison Office has taken up residence, with Director Thaddeus Grimm himself on weekends. They’ve got it in their heads that Ja-, the murderer, might be Fae himself, so they’re trying to wrest control from us, despite the crime scene being leagues from the Fae District. Though not if Abberline has anything to say about that, I tell you.”

“Has he some aversion to Fae?” Holmes asked. 

“He has an aversion to cooperation, which the Liaison Office is not inclined to accept.” Lestrade leaned toward the men conspiratorially. “Did you know they have women Officers coming to our door? And high in rank by my recollection. Some of those Fae girls are right fearsome. One spent an entire afternoon showing Hopkins her knife collection, then she swore like a sailor when a constable mistook her for a secretary.”

At this, Holmes broke into a wide, mischievous grin. His grey eyes caught fire and, in a flash, he was up and discarding his dressing gown for his coat. “It seems to me you have your hands full with all these visitors, Lestrade. If you are going to complete the Turner case satisfactorily, I fear you may need company. I volunteer myself and Watson if nothing else than to distract the intruders.”

Lestrade sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Watson clapped his back as he walked past to get his hat and gloves, barely suppressing a smile.

“Come now,” continued Holmes. “Watson will finally get some conversation regarding our newest celebrity murderer, and I can see two law enforcement cultures intermingle. What a fascinating display of anthropology.”

“Any reason for this sudden change of attitude?” Asked a bemused Watson as they exited.

Holmes paused, drumming his fingers on the door frame before looking back with that same wide grin. “Curiosity.”


	2. A Fraught Cohabitation

As Holmes and Watson entered Great Scotland Yard behind Lestrade, they were bombarded with the crush of people. It was twice as full as it usual, and everyone was trying to make themselves heard above the din. Police, press, and pathologists scooted around each other like awkward crabs in the hallways, trying to get work done despite the influx of on-lookers. And peppered throughout the sea of humanity was the distinct black and iridescent uniform of the Fae Liaison Office. The human police seemed to coexist well enough with their pointy-eared counterparts, but there remained a clear distinction between the two. For one, the Liaison Officers had visibly more idle time on their hands. They leaned against corners and commandeered chairs, coils of kinetic energy waiting to pounce, even as the human police kept a steady pace of tasks around them.

No where else was this distinction more evident than in the hallway leading to Frederick Abberline’s office. Humans lined one side, Fae the other, and Lestrade lamented his own office was deep into the crowd. Watson gave a noncommittal hum to that. He was only half-listening, as much like everyone else in the corridor, his other ear was tuned to the raised voices from behind Abberline’s closed door.

Everyone except for Sherlock Holmes, who was busy scanning the faces of each Liaison Officer with performative nonchalance. By that time, the group had been noticed by the crowd, and an excited strain of whispers spread throughout the human line. The cacophany mellowed to a dull whisper as the men strode down the hall, faces turning towards them. But suddenly, a bright, raucous laugh stopped them.

“Did that hyperactive scarecrow finally deign to show up?” Cackled a female voice from the Fae side.

That wide grin was back on Holmes’ face as he called out, “Keep a wary eye, gentlemen. Someone let a wildcat into the building.”

Watson watched a woman step from the crowd of Liaison Officers at the corridor’s end to face Holmes. She was tall, lithe, and confident, with dark hair and striking violet eyes. Her grin, with an impertinent little twist at its corner, nearly matched Holmes’. They walked slowly towards each other, their audience growing silent around them.

Holmes was the first to speak. “My congratulations on the Seelie United Bank case. A few more months without that demerit and your shapeshifting license is assured.”

The woman lifted an eyebrow. “I am surprised to see you turned down knighthood again. One more international case and Mrs. Saxe-Coburg will have to pin you down with that sword.”

“Leopard.”

“Derryn.”

After a beat, the two burst into laughter, to the utter confusion of Lestrade. “What do you suppose is going on here?” He whispered to Watson.

“Trouble,” he answered, a faint smile tickling the corners of his moustache.

Holmes excitedly led the woman to the other men. “Watson, Lestrade. This is the Liaison Officer who was so instrumental in the Weatherby case.”

Watson shook her hand, her grip firm. “The indomitable Celeste Lefay,” he said with admiration. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Officer.”

“Charmed, Dr. Watson. Your work in The Strand precedes you.” Miss Lefay smiled coyly, “As I see my reputation precedes me. Though I do fear Mr. Holmes may have been overly flattering in his account of us both. There was far more running and punching than I think he cared to elaborate.”

“Then it is fortuitous that you punch harder than I do,” Holmes responded.

_Trouble, indeed,_ thought Watson as he watched her bat away the compliment. 

The Officer turned to Lestrade, extending her hand. “And you must be Inspector Lestrade. I’ve seen you bustling about the building. Glad to finally be introduced. Your men regard you quite highly.”

Lestrade flustered a bit at the blunt praise, limply shaking her hand with his mouth ajar. “Ah, yes, thank you,” he recovered. “What brings you to Scotland Yard today, Ma’am?”

She sighed heavily, rolling her eyes. “I, like most of my team, am attempting to convince yonder Inspector of our usefulness to the Ripper investigation. At the moment, Director Grimm is attempting to…” A bellowing roar came from inside Abberline’s office. “…negotiate. If Thatch can keep the shouting down to a minimum, I’m supposed to be called in to give an analysis of past targets.”

Holmes looked to her with pleasant surprise. “Grimm entrusted you with the victim’s profile? About bloody time of him.”

Miss Lefay beamed with pride. “Not only that, but I’m using the profiles to lead my team in protecting and educating the women of Whitechapel. It’s yielded the unexpected benefits of protecting some of these women against assault, theft, and domestic violence as well.”

“You lead the team?” Spluttered Lestrade, his brain catching up.

“Yes. With eight Officers reporting to me and several informants paid on commission.”

“But you’re a woman,” Lestrade said without thinking. Watson and Holmes watched as it dawned on the Inspector how thoroughly he’d lodged his foot in his mouth, and how Miss Lefay stood mercilessly quiet and bemused, letting him proverbially hop around in his messy words. 

“Thank you for pointing out the obvious, Inspector,” she said at last, in a manner so reminiscent of Holmes that he and Watson had to quickly squelch their laughter. “But being a woman, and what’s more, a woman with a womb, I am keenly aware of what it means when said organ is cut open. And being a woman un-shy of a little confrontation, I am uniquely poised to teach other women how to escape as the victor. A vital perspective in these times, don’t you think so?”

“I suppose so,” he said, looking at his shoes. 

“I’m glad we can agree.” Lestrade nodded sheepishly. Celeste turned to Holmes. “So, are you here to observe the chaos, or will you be joining the fray?” She gestured to the crowd and the world’s least subtle closed-door argument. 

Holmes sighed. “Alas, I have to hold myself in reserve for other demands. However, I am confident that justice will be served, so long as Scotland Yard is willing to listen to your expertise, and that of the whole Liaison Office.”

“That olive branch is entirely up for Scotland Yard to extend,” said Celeste with her hands on her hips. “And Inspector Abberline is not in a sharing mood.”

“Not an uncommon occurrence,” said Watson. “He hasn’t even introduced himself to us. The word around here is he has no love for amateurs.” He jerked his thumb towards the amateur in question, who huffed at the mention of a month’s worth of snubs from said inspector. 

Lestrade nodded. “I can vouch for that. Most solitary man, Fred is. He did tolerate a councilman following him around once. He was here to ‘observe a report of non-biased policing’. He allowed it in the interest of fairness, he did. But he’s kept this entire business with the Ripper close to his chest.”

“I would too if the murderer was writing me letters signed in blood,” muttered Watson.

“Do you really think the killer is Fae, Officer?” Lestrade asked Celeste. “Reports from the crime scenes don’t show any magical evidence.”

“A Fae can use a knife just as well as a human,” she replied with a smirk. “The reports from my girls, what they’ve seen and what they’ve heard, point to Fae strength and speed. But so long as the victims are human and the crime scenes stay outside the Fae District, it will take more convincing than the word of fallen women.”

A slamming door announced the emergence of Thaddeus Grimm from Abberline’s office. He was a sturdy older man with greying temples and a clipped mustache, and an expression matching Poseidon while unleashing a ship-sinking storm. Holmes, who had previously leaned against a wall in deep contemplation, swiveled his head to watch the Director as he passed. 

He put a gentle hand on Celeste’s shoulder. “Leopard, go convince your employer to meet us back here. Tell him the long-nosed mosquito has a proposition. Lestrade, we shall need to borrow your office. Clear the clutter from your chairs.” Lestrade groaned and shooed the loiterers from his door. Celeste gave a sidelong glance to Holmes before smiling, nodding, and running to catch up with the Director. 

Watson raised his eyebrow at his friend, who was currently rubbing his hands together in fiendish glee. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you…”

They finished the sentence together, sharing conspiratorial looks. “Had an idea.”


	3. A BlossomingConspiracy

Celeste pulled a bewildered and grumpy Thaddeus Grimm into Lestrade’s office. Said occupant was bickering with Sherlock Holmes as to who would be sitting behind the desk while Dr. Watson stood in a corner, pretending to mind his own business. As the two Fae entered, the inspector took the opportunity to swipe the seat for himself. Holmes resorted to leaning on the desk corner in a show of casual dominance.

Director Grimm was not impressed. “Mr. Holmes.”

“Welcome Director,” said Holmes lightly, ignoring any tension in the room. “I see you are having difficulty collaborating with the local authorities. My sympathies; that is a common lament for myself as well. It can be troublesome convincing these human police the importance of unconventional methods.” He spared a glance at Lestrade, who gave a long-suffering sigh.

“What are you getting at, Sir?” Asked Grimm, his tether already frayed enough.

Holmes leant forward. “I might have a way of getting Inspector Abberline to bring you into the case. Irrefutably.”

Grimm sat down at the opposite chair with crossed arms. “This better be useful.” Celeste, who had been standing at military attention beside her commanding officer, visibly relaxed as he sat down. Her face read a far more hopeful expression than Director Grimm’s schooled impassiveness, and it was to her Holmes nodded before continuing.

“The crux of your frustration is who has jurisdiction over the Jack the Ripper investigation. Neither the location of the murders, nor the victims have much in common with the Liaison Office, so there is little to be done there. But if there is evidence the murderer himself is Fae, then your services would very well be required in catching and convicting the fiend. Arguably, the human police force would still retain some involvement, nevertheless, The Office would take the undisputed lead.”

“That is the preferred outcome, yes,” said Grimm, still frustrated. “But there’s no convincing the Inspector to consider it.”

Holmes nodded sagely. “Yes, but if enough evidence was presented alongside a neutral third party, said third party could insist both sides investigate the crime scene to answer the question definitively, in the interest of fairness, of course.”

The Director narrowed his eyes. “In the interest of fairness,” he muttered. “And you would be that third party, I presume?”

“Naturally,” said Holmes, beaming. “My role will be tertiary, merely to make the judgement as to whether leadership of the investigation shall be in human or Fae hands. Any actual investigating will be done by Scotland Yard, or your Officers. After I’ve made my judgement, I shall take the closest cab back home and await the results in the next day’s paper.”

Grimm leaned back, revealing nothing in his expression save annoyance. Holmes had schooled his face into one of impassive pleasantness. Everyone else held their breath for the duration of their little staring contest. After a moment, Grimm shrugged. Whatever scales his mind held for Mr. Holmes, the man had not been found wanting.

“I suppose the burden shall be upon my team to provide enough evidence to entertain this collaboration?”

“Any proof you can provide would aid in convincing the Inspector immensely. I’ve heard of the descriptions from Officer Lefay’s informants.” He looked to Celeste. “Any other observations would be of use. And Director Grimm, if you could locate your son and have him present his profile of the murderer, that would be most compelling.”

The Director gave the slightest jolt of surprise but recovered quickly. Watson noticed and quietly cleared his throat, but Holmes dismissed the noise with a miniscule wave of his hand. Celeste watched the exchange with keen interest.

“Has my son been boasting to all the regulars he could see the real Jack from twenty paces?” Asked Grimm.

“Your son has mostly been standing by the office door, waiting for you and looking important,” Holmes countered. “But he’s been doing so with a thick notebook in his arms and your nose on his face.”

The other gentlemen suppressed laughter as Director Grimm huffed and rose from his seat. “I’ll see to fetching him then,” he said. “Lefay, give the detective a full report of your findings.”  
Celeste nodded curtly to her commanding officer as he left but broke into a wide smile when he was gone. “You bastard,” she said to Holmes.

“I might have my own ulterior motives,” he said with a nonchalant shrug. “I get a box seat to the latest developments while not once getting mistaken for ‘investigating’. We all get what we want and stay out of trouble. Now, what’s the word from your informants on the street?”

Officer Lefay perched beside Holmes on the desk and described the alleged appearance of Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes’ final companion. In addition to the common sightings of a top hat and cape, women described him as ‘moving with clear Fae eyes through the thickest fog’, and ‘changing his face like a glamour’. One flower girl saw him leap from an alley to the second story window. It was all secondhand recall, but Celeste had questioned her sources thoroughly, and Holmes knew the exact queries to pull a clear direction from the testimony. Between the two, they had all the information to confirm these reports in the field.

Behind the two conspirators, Watson and Lestrade watched in bemusement. “They work well together,” said Lestrade with no small twinge of envy. “Not like the routine you two have got, but it’s nice to see him making a friend.”

It was that moment Holmes let slip he’d deciphered the encrypted Fae code in the newspapers and had been reading her personal correspondence, and the tone subsequently took a frosty turn.  
“I may have spoken too soon,” Lestrade said, suppressing a laugh as Officer Lefay scolded him about ‘classified information’, and ‘ignoring proper channels’. Holmes immediately backtracked into a flurry of excuses. “Five quid says she hits him,” the inspector whispered. 

Watson nodded agreement. “I’ll raise you a tenner he still marries her though.” Lestrade looked incredulously at him, and like clockwork, Celeste smacked Holmes on the arm as he attempted to apologize.

“That was unnecessary,” he barked.

“It’s half as much as you deserve,” she countered. “Ask me next time.”

Watson slipped his five-pound note to Lestrade, who masked the exchange with a handshake. “I will take that bet, John Watson,” he said.

A ball of paper smacked Lestrade in the temple. The men turned to see Officer Lefay crumpling fresh ammunition, and Holmes smirking at her aim. “Are you hens done with your clucking?” He asked.

Before the alleged future Mrs. Holmes could launch another barrage, Thaddeus Grimm stormed back into the office, a younger, thinner shadow of himself following excitedly behind. She jumped to a more professional posture; the paper ball hidden behind her back. 

Holmes swatted the paper from Celeste’s hand to the wastebasket surreptitiously. “Welcome back, Director. And young Mr. Grimm, a pleasure to meet you.” He shook the smiling young man’s hand. “Glad to see your ankle is healing from the bank case. It is a shame about that boggart infestation in your fireplace though.”

Toby Grimm’s smile faltered slightly. “Now Mr. Holmes, you’re just showing off. You’ll have to tell me how you knew that.”

A slight nod from the detective. “Merely a playful deduction, Officer Grimm. You carry the same stripes on your cuffs as Officer Lefay and have been assigned similar concentrations; it is plain to see you are often partnered as colleagues and as I know she was assigned the bank case, so were you.” 

“And you favored your right foot as you stepped forward to shake his hand,” interjected Watson. “Though less than if the injury was fresh.”

“Precisely, Watson.”

Grimm shook his head incredulously. “That one did slip my mind, I’ll admit. But how did you, of all people, know about boggarts?”

“Your coattail, Toby,” answered Celeste. “You missed a few of the sooty handprints on the lining, where you would put it on the fire grate to warm in the morning.” Holmes nodded in confirmation. “I also may have loaned him my copy of Baggins’ Bestiary.”

Holmes shrugged. “That, I can neither confirm nor deny.”

“Well,” said Toby, smacking a ledger down on Lestrade’s desk. “We’re here to catch Jack the Ripper, not boggarts. And it just so happens I’ve been tracking the bastard.”

Director Grimm harrumphed his son’s language, but everyone gathered around the open notebook regardless. Toby began by taking out a drawing with a flourish. It seemed to be a rendering of Goulston Street, where the Ripper had left a ghoulish message after dispatching poor Catherine Eddowes. The drawing was minimalist in value study, but meticulous in line work, as if the artist spent the better part of a day capturing the image of the graffiti and stoop to the sad tenement building.

“This has been dictated from a memory glass of a Constable at the scene,” Toby began. “Being sourced directly from his memory, we can observe things today they might have missed on the night in question. For instance, you see the broken glass in the gutter.”

Sure enough, there by the stoop was an odd round bottle broken at its fluted neck. Celeste’s eyes widened hungrily upon spotting it, and Holmes looked closer after noticing her reaction. The bottle was quite small and seemed to have neither a flat base nor a lid at the top.

“Your eyes do not deceive you, gentleman,” said Toby proudly. “That is no ordinary glass. Well, to humans it isn’t. To Fae it is known as an Aethrial Applicator; it injects intravenous medication, much like those primitive syringes you have, no offense.” He laughed and pulled an example of the object from his pocket, and it looked like the marriage between a perfume bottle and a light bulb from the World’s Fair. There was a small opening at the sharp pointed top. Toby placed it on the desk next to the drawing.

“An Athrial can be used to administer any number of Fae medications, including those that can make the victim more compliant and passive. Thus, my opinion of Jack the Ripper is that he is a small, unassuming Fae man without the power to subdue his victims properly. Therefore, he uses manipulation and deceit to lull his target into false security before striking with this.” Toby made an enthusiastic stabbing motion with the glass bauble, making his audience flinch. He let a cheeky smile slip at the reaction to his theatrics.

Holmes’ brows knitted together. “If the Ripper is Fae, surely he has access to innate magic just as well as Fae potions. Why not use his own powers as opposed to something that has left evidence?”

Toby whirled on him with an excited clap. “Because of the exact conversation we are having right now. Magic leaves its own evidence, and if there was incontrovertible proof we were dealing with Fae, my associates and I would already be hunting.” A wolfish smile at Celeste and his father. “But if the evidence casts doubt as to the Ripper’s identity rather than clarity, he could escape detection longer due to all this bickering.”

Holmes leaned back, impressed. “And that might be the most compelling information we can use. Division does justice no good, so we can compel Inspector Abberline we must unite, at least in finding answers.” He turned to the elder Grimm and inclined his head. “By your leave Director, I think we are ready to assail the good Inspector again, but this time as a unit.”

“Very well,” said Grimm after a contemplative look. “You heard the man, Officers. Move out.” He strode confidently into the hallway, Toby and Celeste following suit in formation.

Holmes and Watson brought up the rear of the processional, though the latter looked back at Inspector Lestrade from the doorway. “You won’t be coming with us, Inspector?”

Lestrade laughed. “Are you joking? I finally have peace and quiet in this office. I’m not leaving until I starve, or my Missus drags me out. You all enjoy catching Saucy Jack now.” With a smirk, Watson was off, closing the door behind him, and the Inspector breathed deeply the sweet air of solitude. He looked to the pleasant tedium of paperwork but was shocked to find three of his case files opened and altered. A meandering, scribbling conversation trailed through the margins between a wild, emphatic feminine script and a precise masculine one. Over the course of a conversation, they had solved three of his cases.

In the unlikely future where Watson was right, Lestrade was going to send those two some champagne on their honeymoon.


	4. An Approach with Caution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, an audience with Abberline, but how does it go?

The merry band of Fae and amateurs trooped to Inspector Frederick Abberline’s door, Holmes stepping forward to knock.

“You better have my coffee in hand, Mr. Coulson,” came a gruff voice from within. Holmes did not wait for an invitation to enter.

“I am afraid your page is still busy valiantly battling the eldritch beast that is the Scotland Yard furnace,” he said, striding into the office with a pleasant smile and absolute confidence. The rest followed suit before the door closed behind them. “Our fine company will have to serve as adequate stimulant for the moment.”

The man at the desk didn’t have time to object before the whole band was standing before him. Inspector Abberline was a solid rectangle of a man with an oblong head accented by mutton chops and a walrus mustache that made his mouth a perpetual scowl. And if human looks could kill, Holmes would have been dead at twenty paces. He jumped from his seat as they entered and nearly blew steam from his ears at Celeste’s entrance. Watson stood stalwartly in front of the door as Holmes and Director Grimm took places across the desk from the Inspector. 

“Inspector Abberline, I have a proposition for you.” Holmes’ voice still rang calm and polite, but all congenial flippancy left, leaving only steely seriousness. “I take no pleasure in the theatre of anger, so I will state my claim once and calmly, so I expect the same in kind.”

The change in tone unnerved the inspector. He cleared his throat, and at a voice clearly lowered from his original intention, said, “I need no propositions from amateurs, Sir. As I am sure you are concerned with the state of affairs in Whitechapel, so is the whole of England. You must wait like the rest and have faith the police can handle it.”

“That is my worry, that Scotland Yard will not be able to handle it, should the culprit be Fae.”

“I’ve seen no evidence to that effect.”

“And there is no possibility you could have missed a detail? Possibly details that would be more evident to someone outside your circle?” Holmes gestured to the Officers behind him. 

“I assure you, sir, my investigation leaves nothing to chance, nothing overlooked. I have made it my personal mission to see justice come to Jack the Ripper, no matter who he may be.”

“And no one here aims to dispute that. The work you have done chronicling and investigating these murders is unparalleled.” Abberline preened ever so slightly from the praise. Evidently, the stone DI was not immune to a disarming compliment from an expert in the field. Holmes used this opening to his advantage. “years from now, the history books will say it was Inspector Frederick Abberline who stood toe to toe with Jack the Ripper. In fact, Director Grimm has mainly returned to apologize.”

Thatch started at the mention, about to proclaim he was here for no such thing, but Holmes coaxed him forward. “He would like to apologize for underestimating your accomplishments and trying to wrest control rather than ask to collaborate. He concedes that you have your authority to uphold as well. Ultimately, diversity is your strength, and that cannot be reached with petty squabbles.”

A silent argument consisting mainly of emotive eyebrows ensued between Holmes and Grimm, but the Director swiftly acquiesced. “Mr. Holmes his accurate on all counts,” He said to Abberline. “My apologies for… all the shouting as well. I humbly ask if I may assist you on your investigation, as we have reason to believe magic is involved. My Officers have evidence, and Mr. Holmes has volunteered to be an impartial intermediary to decide whether our assistance shall continue after all evidence is found, in the interest of fairness.”

The combination of deference and contrition gave Abberline pause. He looked from the chastised Grimm to the encouraging Holmes to the eager, earnest Officers behind them. “I should like to hear the evidence you’ve collected, Director. From there, we may see how we proceed, in the interest of fairness. I’ve heard the unsolicited suspicions of three dowagers this week. Your team at least has the promise of being professional.”

Nothing in Celeste Lefay’s expression gave away her genuine excitement save the bright spark in her eyes as she stepped to the forefront to deliver her report. Holmes hid his proud grin behind his hand and Director Grimm just looked relieved. Toby Grimm was bouncing on his heels in glee for his turn, though thankfully he refrained from any swearing and pantomime stabbing in this recitation. The Inspector took all the information quietly and contemplatively from his chair. Afterwards, he politely asked Watson and the two younger Officers to leave, so he may discuss his plans with the principal players. Grimm dismissed his subordinates with a curt nod, Holmes acknowledging his friends with an optimistic smile, and once again a door separated Celeste and the next stage of her work.

Dr. Watson turned to the Officers, “Holmes seems confident he can persuade the Inspector. A deal should not be long in forming. How do you think your father will do with a mediator, young Grimm?”

“Oh, I don’t think he’s listening, Doctor,” whispered Celeste. “He’s thinking about how to eavesdrop with the transom.”

“Apologies for my lack of conversation,” Grimm said as if on cue. “I think I can hear their discussion if I crack open the transom a bit.” He left the other two snickering in amusement as he looked for a box to reach over the door.

“I noticed you didn’t do your little routine for the Inspector,” Celeste said to Watson, who raised his eyebrows and smiled.

“You noticed that, did you?”

“I always thought Holmes’ deductions were some sort of test. I didn’t realize you had both formalized it.”

“Not too much so, I’d think. Holmes has always enjoyed starting a conversation with an observation. You can find out much of a man by the dirt on his shoes or the callouses on his hands, but you can find out much more by telling him so. However, some men completely shut down upon being told about themselves, and cooperation was the imperative in this case.”

Celeste took a sidelong glance at the door. “I did notice how direct a man the inspector was.”

“I as well. Holmes must be taking his role of diplomat quite seriously to have employed his deductions so carefully.”

“So what’s your role in all of it?” She asked with a playful elbow to the arm.

Watson smiled bashfully. “While I am not so adept as Holmes, I have been learning his methods. Should he provide a deduction, I can usually follow it to its origin. It can help open conversation with the timid and the skeptical. Make it less of an interrogation and more of a game. It also keeps him from offending ladies.”

“I have noticed he does tend to do that,” said Celeste with a smirk. “Though you could have done little to help our first meeting. We were quite nasty to each other.”

“I did try to send advice to be polite, it just took some time to fully enter his skull.”

Celeste’s smirk turned into a laugh. “Doctor, you are more astute than your writings would reveal.”

“Not entirely without purpose either,” Watson said, winking. “Helps for one of us to be underestimated, and one to be overestimated.”

Just then, shadows grew behind the frosted window of the door, and Celeste had to tug Toby’s coat to get him off the footstool and out of the way of the opening door. Abberline, Holmes, and Grimm entered, looking relieved. Celeste shot a hopeful smile Holmes’ direction, which Grimm studiously ignored. 

The Director cleared his throat. “Per this period of arbitration, we have been given access to the Mary Kelly crime scene and her autopsy report. You will analyze the information and afterwards report your findings to the Inspector, Mr. Holmes, and me. Once Mr. Holmes has made his decision, then the nature of the Office’s involvement will be decided. We leave for Whitechapel at noon. Understood, Officers?”

Grimm and Lefay nodded their heads, failing miserably at hiding their triumph and excitement. Toby enthusiastically shook a gracious Abberline’s hand, followed by Holmes’, and Watson's for good measure. 

“Don’t smile so much,” Holmes told Celeste. “You’re going to a grisly murder scene.”

She shook her head. “You first.”

Before the two descended into laughter, Director Grimm ordered the Officers to ready the carriage. With a shrug, she left with the younger Grimm, leaving the other four standing in the hallway.

Both Director Grimm and Abberline looked unsure. “I do hope this is a productive afternoon,” the Inspector said.

Grimm nodded. “Agreed.”

Holmes, however, remained confident. “You only stand to gain knowledge, Sirs. What could go wrong?”


	5. A Dance of Blood and Iron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fae and humans reach the crime scene and one verdict is reached. Watson is still deliberating whether or not his friend twitterpated.

Any merriment the group had upon setting out for Whitechapel had cooled into steely professionalism by the time they exited the carriage on Dorset Street. The young Fae were out first, already keen-eyed and observant. Close behind them were Holmes and Watson, then a tired-eyed Inspector Abberline blinking in the sunlight. Director Grimm was still fussing over the autopsy report as he brought up the rear.

On their way into the tenement building, they passed a small shrine to the latest victim. Small bouquets of salvaged flowers and crudely carved wooden crosses lay to the side of the stoop alongside a couple candles. Mary Kelly may have been forgotten by society in life, but Whitechapel would remember her in death. There might have been a dozen girls like her on these streets, lights snuffed out before their time, but the community wasn’t about to let the rest of London commandeer her story into the lurid sensationalism that was the myth of Jack the Ripper. Officer Lefay gave a reverent nod to the display on her way inside, an act not unnoticed by the men behind her.

There was a police-issue lock and chain over the victim’s one room rental that Abberline unlocked. Before opening the door, he looked askance back Celeste. “The room hasn’t been touched other than moving the body. It might be a shock to sensitive, unprepared eyes.”

“Not to worry, Inspector,” Offered Watson. “I was an army doctor.”

The blood that splattered the walls, floor, and bed of the one-room apartment had long since dried rust brown, but that brown covered over half the room, coating the air with the taste of iron. Anything not covered in blood was in general disarray, with bedclothes strewn about the floor and the ceramic wash basin in pieces beside the bureau. The room was unnaturally cold, Inspector Abberline’s only previous concession to magic. which kept out the black flies but only added to the eerie aura. 

At first, the party slowly moved through the room, quietly observing as if they’d entered an art exhibition. Then the Liaison Officers leapt into action like wolves on a deer. Toby Grimm mapped the blood splatters on the wall, trying to determine their origin point. Celeste hunted the corners and crevices of the room, looking for anything magical that might have been missed. Holmes observed them closely but grew distracted by the high window opposite the door. Watson noticed.

“What do you see?” He whispered.

“The view,” Holmes answered cryptically. “However, I do worry about the effect of the stale air on our health. Could you possibly open the latch for us?” He asked loud enough for others to hear, with a cheeky grin towards his friend. 

Watson wasn’t fooled for a moment. He narrowed his eyes and scowled back before taking a running jump at the window. Predictably, the war wound acted up and severely affected both his reach and the height of his jump. He wasn’t even close. Upon Holmes’ encouragement, Inspector Abberline tried the window followed by Holmes himself. Neither were able to reach it. Director Grimm observed all this with the bemusement of a tennis spectator.

“Officer Grimm, we could use a young man’s strength,” said Holmes, catching his breath. “Do you mind getting the window?”

“You could have started by asking me, Sirs. It would have saved you the trouble,” Toby said as he obligingly leapt up to the window. It took a single jump without a head start to propel him to the rafters, but before he could support himself on a beam, he started and braced himself with the corner. “Sirs! There’s a bloody handprint up here. And the latch is broken.” He jumped back down to the floor. “That settles it then. He would have to be Fae to make that jump. None of you humans could.”

Holmes’ expression was neutral, but Watson knew when his friend was leading someone to make his conclusions for him, and he caught a glimpse of that triumphant twinkle in his eye. However, Inspector Abberline remained less than convinced.

“It is circumstantial at best, young man. We are all older men, and this may only prove the murderer’s youth. See if you can make a more detailed study of the handprint. That might provide more insight into his lifestyle.”

Before the younger Grimm could protest further, he was interrupted by a triumphant cry from Celeste. She had carefully moved the stained bedclothes rumpled on the floor and was digging into the floorboards with gloved hands. There was a metal glint in the crack between two planks that she had just wrenched free. The men gathered around her as she held a bent penknife aloft. The cheap blade had twisted, and the hinge was flattened, but the unmistakable brown of dry blood smeared across the sharp edge. The rest of the knife was clear of blood, hidden from the carnage by the discarded blanket. This was not the blood of the murder victim, meaning…

“She fought back,” exclaimed Watson as the realization washed over him.

Celeste smiled; her eyes full of a melancholy pride. “Well done, Mary,” she whispered before standing decisively and looking pointedly at her employer. “And we have his blood.”

It took Toby a half a minute to absorb the information but started bouncing on his heals once he understood. “We can find him. We can find Jack the Ripper!” He turned excitedly to the Inspector. “We can use the blood to set a trap for him, set a lure, and confirm his identity. With your permission, of course. It doesn’t even matter if The Ripper is Fae; we can find him.”

As Toby tried to explain the nature of his Jack-trap, Celeste sidled up to Holmes, evidence still in hand. “Outside, there is a broken window on the north side of the building. An unbent carpentry nail is sticking out from the frame. Can you retrieve it for me?”

Holmes glanced at her slightly, “Iron?”

She nodded without looking at him. “The final judgement of all magics. Hurry, before Toby gives the whole investigation away.”

As he left to retrieve the nail, Watson and Celeste did their best to stall. Abberline was growing entranced by the idea of using Fae tactics to catch a human culprit, and Toby was just eager to pull off a sting operation. Celeste sighed in almost audible relief when Holmes returned with the nail wrapped in his handkerchief. She stepped between the group of men and loudly cleared her throat.

“Gentlemen, I do remember Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson are accompanying us for the purpose of a particular question. With this evidence, we can answer that question and not waste any more of their valuable time. Mr. Holmes, if you could strike this blade with your little nail. Lightly, if you please.”

The Messrs. Grimm were visibly unnerved by the iron Holmes produced, though Celeste merely smirked and held out the knife for him to tap. Once metal hit metal, there was a loud pop and a blossom of tiny sparks from the point of contact. None of the men in the room were prepared for that effect, and Celeste was going to cherish some of those reactions in perpetuity.

“Does that happen every time?” Holmes whispered.

“Only when it’s dry,” she answered. “Iron negates magic. That can awaken the energy in dead blood.”

“So that settles it,” Thaddeus Grimm said once all the men had recovered. “No more circumstantial evidence. There is magic in our culprit’s blood. What is your verdict, Mr. Holmes?”

The detective weighed the expressions of everyone in the room before answering. “All evidence points to someone with more magic available to them than any human could purchase at a corner jinxery. For safety’s sake, I agree that any further action to catch him should be in Fae hands.” The elder Grimm gave a long sigh, as if exhaling for the first time in a month. The younger Grimm punched the air. “However,” Holmes continued. “Human knowledge is absolutely crucial in this investigation. Keep Inspector Abberline present and informed of any operations. Utilize constables as often as Officers. This is no time to let ego disrupt your unity. Otherwise, Officers, Inspector, and Director, I wish you luck on your endeavors.” He nodded conclusively, and for a moment, his audience was quietly appreciative. Even Abberline looked at peace with his judgement.

Thaddeus Grimm cleared his throat. “Your contribution and decisiveness have been noted and appreciated. Officer Lefay, if you could see Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson out and safely on their way out of Whitechapel.” It was unclear if the slight edge in his voice was to make sure they left or she didn’t linger too long, but she led them outside just the same. 

Bathed in the golden light of the afternoon, even Whitechapel looked rosy and idyllic. Celeste took the steps two at a time as they left the building for the street and let out a short whoop of excitement. Holmes and Watson started smiling and chuckling as well; her joy was so infectious

Celeste playfully punched Holmes in the arm. “I don’t usually approve of someone barging in and advocating for me, Sir,” she said with a smirk.

“No one was going to get any work done if they kept arguing like that,” Holmes answered with a shrug. “Or listen to those making the effort to investigate on the ground, like yourself.”

“It is going to make our jobs much easier,” Celeste remarked. They passed an alley after rounding the corner, Holmes made to toss the iron nail, but she stopped him. “Keep it. Not every Fae is as _accommodating_ as I am.” Watson’s eyebrows raised, but Holmes didn’t seem to notice. 

By that point, they had reached a road where two gentlemen could securely hail a cab. Celeste turned to face them. “This is where I leave you. Dr. Watson, a pleasure to meet you. Derryn, I know you have another case waiting, and I can tell it’s rather hush. So, I will leave you to it and wish you good luck.” She held her hand aloft and snapped twice. Suddenly, the bustle of traffic beside them parted for a sleek green cab behind a ginger mare, her equally ginger driver holding the reins. 

“A leprechaun cab? You shouldn’t have,” said Holmes with a smile. “This has been an enlightening afternoon, and I hope the evening bears fruit for all of us. I look forward to reading the result of your work in the paper” The gentlemen tipped their hats to the driver while stepping inside. Watson gave directions to Baker Street as Celeste payed the driver. As they drove away, Holmes leaned out of the carriage. “Happy hunting, Leopard.” She was laughing as she walked back to the crime scene.

Several blocks of silence later, Watson grew brave enough to broach conversation. “I rather enjoyed finally meeting Officer Lefay. It’s been some time since I was in Fae acquaintance, and she proved gracious and engaging.”

Holmes shot him a glance that teetered between suspicious and annoyed.

“She is quite a singular personality. I look forward to her further colleagueship.”

“Watson.”

“And the two of you work well together. Your quirks are synchronous.”

“Watson.”

“And her talent practically blossomed from your support. Which is more than I can say of either Grimm.”

“Watson.”

“And it’s clear she holds some affection for you. She’s giving you gifts and…”

“JOHN HAMISH WATSON.”

The doctor started but quickly recovered. “It was an intimate gesture, Holmes,” he said, pointing to the iron in his coat pocket for emphasis.

“It is a carpentry nail. I yanked it out of the window frame myself. Look, there’s still a cobweb attached to it.”

“It is still cold iron. She trusted you with a thing capable of killing her. I wouldn’t be surprised if she gets you a nicer one later. The affection should be obvious, even to you.”

“The only thing obvious is that we are friendly acquaintances who keep meeting over life-threatening circumstances. And I’ll thank you not to get so caught up in your matchmaking that it distracts from the case we are actually invited to investigate. I’d rather not explain to brother dear just why we’ve been so recently close to Fae Liaison Officers.”

Sensing no victory any time soon, Watson leaned back in his seat, acquiescing. “Very well. It’s all the business of this ambassador’s nephew from here on out. What is our next course of action?”

“This evening we will be meeting with the ambassador for his side of the story, and tomorrow we will be tracking his weekend whereabouts. Not quite as _active_ as running after Jack the Ripper, but it should prove intellectually stimulating.”

The reputation of Leprechaun cabs as swift and smooth transportation did not disappoint. The vehicle slowed down in front of Baker Street, both men left to prepare for the ambassador’s arrival later that day. Watson felt mildly guilty for distracting Holmes away from the case, but a flock of unanswered questions about the day still fluttered around the subject of the Officer. He resolved to take care of those later.

Meanwhile, Holmes kept the nail in his breast pocket for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live! These last couple chapters have taken a little more effort to block and plan. Oddly enough, the more casework-heavy, 'housekeeping' chapters need more of that than the action scenes.
> 
> Once again, I apologize for any errors or liberties taken with Mary Kelly's crime scene. I am again not a Ripperologist, just telling a story. We can blame it on the AU if we want. Otherwise I didn't want to reduce Ms. Kelly to being killed by some douche, and I hope I pulled that off.


	6. A Feigned Perception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Holmes establishes boundaries and makes an observation.

Dusk was falling over the next day, and Holmes and Watson were walking back into Whitechapel, though for a different reason than their last venture. Their dress was simple and practical enough, but Watson carried with him a satchel of colorful accessories, including two black domino masks. 

“Hopefully using these will be less fraught than the last time,” remarked Watson.

“Don’t jinx it,” Holmes said dryly.

“Jinx? Since when have you cared about jinxing things? That’s not part of Fae grammar.”

“Oh, it isn’t? It’s been a challenge to learn.”

The fog started rolling in and Watson had to sidestep to keep from running into a lamppost. “It can be really easy once you have the hang of it. Just avoid anything that implies you owe a debt. That’s why you can’t ever get a simple ‘thank you’ from them. And avoid agreeing to anything without revealing all the parameters. They hate that. And Holmes…”

“Yes, Watson.”

“You really only need these rules when speaking to Fae,” Watson pointed out. “They speak that way to each other, but there’s nothing obligating us to do the same. I, for instance, would much rather you speak plainly, since I already have to decipher enough of your deductive riddles.”

Holmes threw his head back and cackled at that. “Very well. I shall refrain from inflicting my Fae grammar practice upon you, but I request one thing in return.”

“Up to half the kingdom.”

“No more matchmaking jokes. Let me enjoy my odd friendship with Officer Lefay without social pressure souring it.”

“Noted. Consider it a thing of the past. And I hope you know, Holmes, you have my full support for this friendship, in its current form, or should it ever change.”

Holmes smiled genuinely. “You’ll be the first to know if it does, my friend.”

Watson gave Holmes a reassuring pat on the shoulder before turning his attention back to the masks. “So, who are we burgling, and what do they have on Ambassador Blake’s nephew?”

“No burgling this time. Just a social club with a particular set of rules.”

“Is that where he goes?” Watson looked at the supplies. “The ambassador didn’t have much of a lead.”

“Not from his perspective, but when he produced young Cademus Blake’s pocketbook to study his purchases, this slipped out.” Holmes pulled a matchbook from his coat and handed it to Watson. At first, it just looked like a plain black matchbook like one could find at any pub in London. But as he held it up to the light of a streetlamp for a better look, Watson noticed three dots evenly spaced near the corners. Their texture was iridescent while the cardboard around them stayed a matte black. The colors were so similar, it wouldn’t have been possible to see if he hadn’t held it up to a light surrounded by darkness.

“Is this supposed to represent a domino?” Asked Watson.

Holmes grinned. “Got it in one. And my research into London’s social circles has yielded whispers of a Club Dominique which has taken up residence in one of the warehouses near the docks, matching the evidence the Ambassador provided. It is rumored to be a secretive establishment, thriving upon the release of social decorum, and assured anonymity for those in attendance.”

“Hence the masks,” Watson said, understanding.

“More or less. Another of its hallmarks is the club’s marriage of Human and Fae technologies. There is a perception ward making anyone’s face past the vestibule unrecognizable outside. The masks are just a way to the door whilst adhering to their policy. The invitation Mycroft procured for us will get us inside, where I will locate Cademus Blake and make detailed note of his doings.”

“Then what?” Asked Watson, scowling. “Are we to bring him back in irons for carousing? Seems excessive.”

“Indeed. You may have noticed Ambassador Aloysius Blake is a…”

“Bit overprotective?”

“A prick.”

“Well I wasn’t going to say that out loud.”

“Regardless, the elder Blake is an Ambassador, young Cademus is his nephew and ward, and he has exacting opinions on how members of his household should comport themselves. Such an environment must be suffocating to Blake, hence going to secret clubs to sew wild oats and practice his magical skill.”

“I noticed the ears in his picture as well. From the size of the point, I’ll venture he’s half-Fae.”

“And if that is a lineage his uncle shares, he hides it with a glamour, which might further contribute to their rift. I’m not one to chastise a man merely for unorthodox interests, and the most I shall do in that case is inform Master Blake of his uncle’s curiosity. Though there are certain activities, when pursued recklessly, that could affect his reputation and comfort. That would require a more discreet admonishment.” They rounded the corner, a distinctly marshy smell hitting them as they neared the docks. It was still blocks away, but the fog carried it. Holmes turned up his nose, looking almost annoyed. “The only circumstance in which I intend to follow the Ambassador’s instructions completely is if Cademus Blake is doing something illegal or destructive. But I cannot make that decision without observation.”

“You need data, obviously,” said Watson sympathetically. “And that is why…” he trailed off, distracted. “I did not realize ladies of the evening move in herds these days.”

“Watson, what are you- Oh, they’ve started already,” Holmes completely switched his train of thought as he noticed what had sidetracked his friend. A dozen women in bright dresses, hitched skirts, and curled hair ribbons exited a building down the street en masse. They wore the cheap rouge and unkempt hair that signified the world’s oldest profession in this part of town. The very women who most needed the protection of shelter but were least able to afford it.

“Started what?” Asked Watson, as the ladies hadn’t seemed to have instigated anything. They weren’t performing the pantomime of femininity that signaled to passersby they were open for business and didn’t even approach the men around the nearby street corners. They mostly kept tightly circled around themselves and spoke quietly with tense expressions.

“This is a Liaison Office Operation,” Holmes explained. “Notice how the ladies are all wearing matching sprigs of heather pinned to their lapels, though some have mixed it with aconite while others have edelweiss. The heather is a good luck charm, in the symbolic and likely magical sense. Let’s see, the aconite means ‘beware’, so those are for scouts and informants, and the edelweiss symbolizes bravery for the captains. Those are the ones who will actually apprehend the murderer.”

Watson squinted in the lamplight. “They must have glamours if they’re Fae. No pointed ears. I can see they all have matching earrings. What’s the significance of that, I wonder?”

“It is a magical communication device. The building they exited is their base of operations for this mission. The higher officers will stay there offering guidance and surveillance through that connection, as well as the ladies being able to discreetly communicate wi-” It was Holmes’ turn to be distracted, drawing breath sharply and swearing to himself. Emerging from the doorway was the most tense, stoic strumpet of them all, and she had a familiar face. 

Holmes immediately strode across to their side of the street like someone waved a flag, Watson scrabbling to catch up. Celeste’s face fell visibly when she saw who was approaching, but she recovered as quickly as she could.

“Why aren’t you in the control room?” Holmes asked, accidentally cutting off what she was about to say. “Surely, you’re work proved how indispensable your perspective is to the operation. You should be with the rest of leadership.”

Officer Lefay paused, blinking up at the detective before giving a long, patient sigh. “The Director decided my talents were better spent with the vanguard. All the necessary eyes are observing from above, and -frankly, Derryn- I wouldn’t be much of a leader if I were not out on the front lines with my ladies, would I?”

“As admirable as your conviction is,” Holmes swallowed and shuffled slightly in his frustration. “I worry your colleagues are not seeing you clearly as an asset.”

Celeste cocked her head sideways, looking up at him with a crooked smirk. Holmes stilled slightly at her expression, and she quickly cast a bemused glance toward Watson. “Would you feel better if I told you the plan?” She asked.

“I know I would,” Watson interjected.

“Thank you,” She said before leaning in conspiratorially. “Using the blood sample as a focus, we were able to fashion a mark so that we will know our culprit on sight. Once either our lookouts or the scryers up top locate him, the captains and I will lure him to the alley we’ve already prepared. The other girls will go to safety and a shield ward will keep him from escaping the location. Then,” her smile turned devilish. “We strike.”

Holmes took a step back. “That is… an elaborate yet decisive plan.”

“Sprung fully formed from the mind of Tobias Grimm.” Celeste said with a shrug. “He had everything ready to implement as soon as we got permission.”

“Then I would hate to interfere with Officer Grimm’s perfection. Do take care of yourself, Leopard,” Holmes said, tipping his hat.

“It’s the glamour, you know,” she said quickly before he could walk away.

“Beg pardon?”

“I know I seem lonely and meek right now. I’m supposed to. Our Warders put a glamour on all our costumes, so we looked like perfect victims. Your hindbrain is meant to underestimate me, so you don’t have to actually worry.”

Holmes turned back and took a long look at Celeste. He could mention how she kept batting away a tendril of her curled hair as it invaded her periphery and posed a potential distraction. He could mention how her knives weren’t in their usual holster due to the costume and would slow her reaction time by that much more. He could mention how her eyes periodically glanced at each of the other ladies, mentally counting them, or how the defensive edge in her voice as she explained the plan sounded more like she was convincing herself of its efficacy. He could have said all these things, but for once, Sherlock Holmes kept his deductions to himself.

The gentlemen said their well-wishes and farewells and set off in the opposite direction. The fog had thickened by that time and Watson kept in pace by the sound of his friend’s footsteps and vague silhouette in front of him. They walked in a silence thicker than the vapor around them, and the back of Holmes’ head even looked exasperated. 

It took all of five minutes before Watson decided that camel’s back needed one more straw. “They use mirrors, not windows, by the way.”

The silhouette ahead of him stopped. “What?”

“I saw it in Afghanistan. They use mirrors to conjure their surveillance. The Director, and all his reinforcements, could be far away from the operation for all we know. Just in case that knowledge has any effect on your decision.”

Watson watched Holmes’ shoulders sag for just a moment, before he straightened up, turned on his heel, and marched with purpose back the way they came.


	7. An Error in Calculation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes and Watson have first row seats to the sting of the century. What could go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Violence. There is quite a brawl ahead.

“Holmes, I would like to remind you that I have a faulty leg and not the best relationship with heights,” said Watson as they cleared the second floor of the four-story warehouse. They were using a tiny ladder by the drainpipe that served as a pitiful excuse of a fire escape and swayed precariously with the slightest of breezes.

“Only a few more feet, Watson. Patience and courage.”

“The former is rapidly shortening in supply,” he grumbled, clinging to the drainpipe as another gust rattled the side of the building.

Despite everything, they made it to the top. Watson resisted the urge to kiss the solid metal of the roof under his feet. Holmes immediately strode to the opposite side where a deserted spit of an alley lay beneath them. 

“You’re sure this is the right place?” Asked Watson, joining his friend near the edge.

Holmes pointed to the far entrance from the alley. “That leads directly to the busiest corner for vice in Whitechapel. The only other exit is on the opposite side, around a corner and behind a fence. The buildings are unoccupied, their doors locked and their walls high. A particularly rowdy pub is less than a block away and will cover up any noise made here.”

“That’s why you would have picked it.”

“Precisely, and why the Office already has.” Holmes pointed with his cane towards the corners of the rooftops. “You can see the glint of hand mirrors at key angles, for their surveillance. You see the lines of salt and ash at the entrances, all the more important that we took the risky way, and if you look from this height…”

Holmes gestured into the alley, where black charcoal markings that would have been nonsensical from ground level merged into the unmistakable pattern of a spell mandala from their rooftop view.

“You are a quick study,” Watson said with half-joking admiration. “I just expected you to march up those stairs and give Thaddeus Grimm a piece of your mind.”

“Though the idea is tempting, I thought it better to respect Officer Lefay’s position. She is rather proud of the ladies in her employ, and while I think her commanding officers are not providing her adequate support, I do consider her choice valid. So, we will stand out of sight to only lend our help in an emergency. Otherwise, it’s straight to Dominique’s.”

“How do you think Miss Lefay will react to us spying from above?”

“If all goes well, she won’t notice us at all. I hope.” A shuffle from the far entrance averted their attention. “Here they come now.”

The group of women designated as captains entered at a leisurely pace, but quickly spread among corners to strategically block methods of escape. They checked weapons, hidden in fascinators or strapped to their thighs, and stretched their limbs to readiness. Reigning among them was Celeste Lefay, weaving between the others to give last minute instructions and test the readiness of the spell. She finally landed on the far side of the entrance, leaning against a barrel like a parody of a comely wench. Everyone was settled by the time the last of the captains arrived, leading a man by the hand. 

Holmes and Watson held their collective breath with the rest, but the ladies’ quarry, someone they proved to match Jack the Ripper by blood, was just a man. No demon or ghoul, but a mortal man. He was of middling height, middling build, and had an utterly forgettable face. He was dressed for a night out with a cape and nice hat but had no clear signifiers of nobility. Watson spared a glance at his compatriot, who knelt still in rapt attention, trying to observe all he possibly could from their vantage point before the coven struck. 

But Celeste Lefay was on no one’s schedule but her own. As the gentleman walked to through the alley, his eyes only on his partner, she slowly left her post and stalked towards them. All the others snapped to attention. The captain on the confused man’s arm left his side to join Celeste’s as a faint glow hovered over the alley. Watson looked around at the shimmering iridescence surrounding them and above their heads. The spell locking them all in was set. He turned to Holmes to share the fortune of their inclusion in the penumbra, but his friend’s singular focus had shifted from the increasingly wary would-be suspect to Officer Lefay. She made no effort to hide her intention, striding into lamplight like a vengeful Erinye. The others around her followed suit, shrinking the circle.

“We know what you are,” Celeste addressed her quarry. His gaze snapped to her, peculiar curiosity on his face. “You can yield to justice or vengeance, but we shall have our satisfaction either way.”

The nondescript man looked alarmed for only a moment before his face split into a wide, malicious grin. He started swaying and punctuating the night with short, murmuring laughs, even as he hunched into a fighting stance and produced a beastly knife from his jacket. 

Celeste raised an eyebrow. “So it shall be vengeance then? Mon Plaisir.”

She barked a command in Fae, and all five women charged for the murderer. They each sped past him, disorienting him with quick blows even as he swung at them with the blade. They countered with blades of their own, not seeking to injure him quite yet, but to agitate and feel for his weaknesses. Celeste landed a particularly direct punch to his jaw and he stumbled back. The pack of she-wolves took their opportunity and swarmed in to grapple him, wresting the knife from his hands. He growled and strained against them as they forced him to his knees. Celeste walked to face the man, roughly pulling his hair to meet her exacting gaze. It was then her expression turned from victory to concern, and she jerked away as if scalded. Watson leaned in to get a better view and… were that man’s eyes glowing red?

“Fall back; He’s been Hexed!”

With an animal growl, Jack the Ripper stood and broke free of the Officers’ hold. Five women went sprawling to the ends of the alley. Watson started, but Holmes gripped his arm silently before he could say anything. Back on street level, the Ripper’s eyes still glowed red, with the veins on his neck and hands phosphorescent as well. 

Celeste crouched across the alley from him, snarling and demanding his eye contact. She was challenging him, distracting him long enough for her captains to recover. Her monstrous adversary ran at her with bared teeth of his own. They traded blows, savages with their fists. The leopard did not go for her knife, trying to keep sharp objects away from the Ripper’s attention. While distracted, another Officer used the advantage to drive her blade into his shoulder, but he caught her arm and turned it back on her, snapping her wrist in the process. It was only Celeste sweeping his calf that turned a stab to the woman’s femoral artery into a glancing slash to her thigh. Another jumped on his back, but the Ripper vaulted her over his shoulder one-handed. Before any of the others could attack, he pulled the prone Officer up by her hair and held her to him as a shield. He had recovered his knife and brandished it at the Fae surrounding him. Celeste held her hands up to the other captains, keeping them from attacking again. The hostage Officer was brave and angry, biting his arm to the point blood dribbled down to the pavement, but her captor did not seem to notice. 

A moment stretched to eternity as Celeste and Saucy Jack made eye contact. Everyone held their breath, including the two men watching from above, their hands gripping white-knuckle tight on the railing. 

The Ripper was fast with his knife, slicing into the woman’s throat before she had a thought to scream. Celeste’s reaction time was just as fast, pulling a stiletto from her waistband and throwing it directly into his shoulder joint. With a spasm, he dropped the knife and the Officer lurched forward, one hand stifling the wound from her neck. Her compatriots caught her and pulled her to the sidelines.

“Get them out of here,” commanded Celeste as she moved between the wounded and the murderer. “Now!” An arc of violet lightning shot from her hands and swirled around her opponent, binding him as the other Officers carried their injured to safety, as she was left alone with Jack the Ripper.

He howled in pain as she viciously tightened her magic hold on him, the smell of burning flesh rising in the alley. Then he took one labored step toward her. Then another. Until he was steadily advancing as she struggled to contain him. She threw her magic to the pavement between them in a desperate attempt to gain some distance. When Celeste tried to rush past him to attack from behind, he snatched her by the arm, yanking hard, and swung her to the ground. She landed face first and had a bloody lip when she jumped back up to a standing position, visibly ragged but still willing to fight.

The Ripper slowly stepped towards her this time, savoring the moment. Celeste refused to give in to fear, instead spitting blood and egging him on with her wobbly boxing stance. Before he could step any closer, a shot rang out from above and cracked the cobblestone and inch from his foot.

“Leopard,” Holmes shouted from the rooftop, his gun still smoking. 

Myriad emotions crossed Celeste’s face in that split second; shock, annoyance, and a small hopeful smile before she ran for the building. With her enemy in close pursuit, she vaulted ten feet in the air and pulled herself onto a loading platform. She kicked the switch to the pulley system, rapidly sending her up the other three stories. The last ten feet was another jump, straight to Holmes and Watson’s outstretched hands.

Holmes spared a glance downward after they had hoisted Celeste to safety. The Ripper was climbing the brick wall hand over hand, and he did not look well. Wounds from his arm and shoulder still trickling blood, electric burns making a singed ring around his torso, and still he pursued with a determined gaze and unhinged laughter. Such injuries would still any sane man, and most of the mad ones. But not Jack the Ripper. Not with his eyes red as heart’s blood, overtaking his iris and sclera. He still climbed. 

With a rising panic, both men reached for their revolvers but could not find them. The solution to that mystery quickly came in the form of Celeste Lefay leaning back over the railing, gun in each hand, emptying the two barrels into Jack the Ripper’s chest. The Hellfire red light finally left his eyes as he plummeted, his body landing broken on the pavement below.

Celeste Lefay, who had remained stone-faced for the entirety of shooting a man to death returned the men’s sidearms, then took a long, deep breath before deflating into a sitting position. Holmes resisted the urge to steady her.

Watson knelt, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Officer Lefay?”

She stared straight ahead, a bemused grin playing at the corner of her mouth. “Oh shite I’m in trouble.”


	8. A Thread Pulled Further

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack the Ripper is dead. Now what?

The light of the moon filtered through the fog over Whitechapel, creating an eerie grey void on the roof of a building beneath which lay the body of a monster. Officer Lefay sat on that roof, staring into the void, breathing through her worst adrenaline crash since her commissioning. Sherlock Holmes knelt into her field of vision, taking her cold, shaking hands into his warm, spindly ones and warming them.

“Leopard?” He asked softly. The concern was not voiced, but acutely felt. 

Celeste smiled back at him, aware of the brittle scab forming on her lip. “I’ve been through worse, Derryn. Can’t think of any at the moment, but I’ll figure it out.”

Holmes let out a quiet laugh, and Watson gave her his flask for some liquid stability. Celeste hissed at the pleasant burn of the alcohol going down her throat. “I recognize I’m stating the obvious,” said Watson. “But I assume that did not go according to plan.”

“No, it did not,” said Celeste with a mirthless grin. Holmes helped her to her feet, and she gave her limbs an experimental stretch, favoring her non-dominant arm. “The plan did absolutely no good at all. We weren’t supposed to kill him, no one was supposed to get hurt, and that git down there wasn’t supposed to be Hexed.”

“The injured ladies...” Watson began.

“Callista and Rinette should -will- be fine. We had Patchers standing by one block over.” She gave the top railing an experimental rattle before hopping over to the edge of the cornice. “If they still even followed the plan and didn’t start Morris dancing through the streets.” She leaned back, heedless of the drop beneath her, to judge the distance to the loading platform. “Now, the spell over the area has another fifteen minutes on it, so people can leave but not enter, and I’m not currently inclined to share with the Office, so here’s my question: Do you both want to conduct the autopsy of your life in record time?”

In the time it took Watson to comprehend the question, Holmes was already over the side and climbing down to the platform. It took him a little more convincing, with both his flat mate and the Officer promising to catch him once he got down. Watson was the only one to hear the pained hiss that came from Celeste as he landed on their supports. He said nothing but kept an eye on her as she used her magic to coax the pulley system into lowering them. 

Once they got to street level, Holmes was first on solid ground and making his way to the body. Again, Watson noticed Miss Lefay’s wince when she used her right arm for balance, now certain of the ailment.

“Officer,” he said quietly. “Your shoulder is out of joint.”

“No worries, Doctor. I heal quickly.” Celeste gave him a reassuring smile. Watson was not convinced.

“No matter how quickly, it won’t heal properly until your arm is fully back in its socket.”

Holmes looked up from the body in alarm. “What was that?”

“Holmes. Body. Deduction. Now.” Watson turned back to Celeste. “If you do not mind, I am able to help you. We can use this lamppost.”

She nodded, and he wedged her shoulder against the post in a way one good push would solve the issue. Watson had her take several deep breaths, then put all his weight on her shoulder joint without warning, fixing the shoulder back in place with a slight crack. Celeste let out a short yelp of pain, but then she stretched and rotated her arm, pleased to find it unhindered.

“Ah yes, field medicine,” Celeste said appreciatively, flexing her hand.

“We can work out gratis later,” said Watson. “Preferably never.”

“Well that’s no fun. Are you one of those altruistic types, Dr. Watson?”

“I simply prefer not to keep Fae ledgers in my head.” They moved to rejoin Holmes. “Let’s just work together to keep this one out of trouble.”

Celeste smiled her first genuine smile of the night. “Agreed.”

Holmes was making an intense study of the dead man’s hands as they knelt beside him. “Shall I share my findings? You’re not going to be happy.”

“He’s human and dead. I’m already unhappy,” Celeste said with a shrug.

“In addition, he was offensively mediocre.” Holmes turned out the man’s pockets with a pen to reveal a billfold. “A James Keanes, 26, of Shoreditch. He was a clerk of middling rank and didn’t work a moment longer than he was required, judging by the state of his callouses. Middle child, social smoker, mildly athletic, unmarried.”

“He’s pale and dewy enough I’d believe he’s never wanted a day in his life,” interjected Watson.

“Materially, you are spot on, my friend. However, he ground his teeth and bit his cuticles, both nervous habits. His hair is thinning prematurely, another sign of stress. And see here where the vein on his jaw was swollen from clenching in life. This man was young, directionless, and privileged, riddled with a quiet nameless anger he was unwilling to assuage with ambition. So it was with a dark spiritual hunger he was driven to Whitechapel with a knife.”

Celeste inspected the dead man’s wallet before handing it to Watson. “Do you think he was recruited into some sort of faction?”

Watson looked incredulous. “Surely you’re not suggesting the Masonite theory, Holmes?”

“I would say the late Mr. Keanes was the perfect subject for radicalization, though to what philosophy I do not know. But I sincerely doubt the Freemasons would deal in this.” He held up Keanes’ arm, showing the angry red scar of an arcane symbol carved into the length of his forearm. “Leopard, my study into Hexes has yet to delve so deep as to decipher it’s meaning here. Do you mind interpreting?”

“A Hex is the bastard child of a Curse and a Compulsion,” Celeste began, rolling up the corpse’s sleeve to get a better look. “It is a magic command inflicted upon the individual with the purpose of their destruction. The body will tear itself apart to complete its imperative. Now, most Hexes don’t get more creative than ‘Go rot and die’, but more elaborate types have been known to surface. ‘Go to the docks and bring back a prostitute’s liver’ isn’t out of the question.”

“Is a Hex always lethal to the subject?” Asked Holmes.

“Not necessarily. If it’s not included in the command, and nothing hindered the host from their task, the Hex will fade with nothing more than a burn. Though, I wouldn’t call it a healthy experience.”

“Few pastimes are. Could it have been inflicted for blackmail?”

Celeste shook her head, inspecting the brand closer. “I don’t think so. This Hex is complicated, elaborate. It took at least an hour to implement, and there’s no blurring or false starts to indicate he flinched. No one would sit so perfectly still for such pain under duress. But when you said pastime…” She looked sharply to Holmes. “I’ve heard rumors of recreational Hexing, but never to this extent. And look.” She twisted the forearm, showing a pale pink scar repeating the lines of its inflamed twin a hair’s breadth away, like an after image in bright light.

Holmes swallowed, a lurch in his stomach washing through the rest of his body. “He’s done this once before.”

Watson let out a shaky breath. “So, he’s A Jack the Ripper…”

“But not THE Jack the Ripper. Or the first one,” Celeste finished. She cursed in Fae under her breath and massaged her temples.

“Will you be able to continue the investigation into who gave him the Hex?” Holmes asked.

Celeste answered with a hollow, joyless laugh. “Oh, I’ll be behind a desk for at least a month. No more helping women in Whitechapel either, I suppose. And from the Yard’s perspective, Abberline will have his man, so they’ll just go back to fighting if Thatch presses the issue.”

The hazy glow around the alley began to flicker, and shouts could be heard further down the block. Celeste stood. “The spell is ending. Gentlemen, I believe it’s time to take your leave. Doctor, Derryn, I am… extremely relieved you chose to spy on me tonight. Good luck.”

Holmes and Watson stood to offer their condolences and goodbyes, Holmes even giving a dejected kick to the nearest object, which happened to be Keanes’ wallet. The leather billfold flopped a few cobblestones over, one small object bouncing away from it. It was a matchbook, matte black, with three shiny black dots…

“Watson, did you drop our evidence for the Blake inquiry?” He asked, the frustration of the evening adding an edge to his voice. “Can we not contaminate the crime scene any further?”

“Holmes, what are you talking about? I’ve still got that matchbook you gave me right here.” He pulled it from his breast pocket, holding it out to the other two. While Celeste looked perplexed at the matching items, a realization dawned in Holmes’ eyes.

The flickering increased and the glowing dimmed. The voices got louder. Holmes looked to Celeste, resolute and alarmed. “Officer Lefay -Leopard-, come with us. This man frequented the same club as the subject of our surveillance. Whoever is Hexing desperate young men may be hunting there. You have the chance to stop a future Jack the Ripper.” He looked behind her to the silhouettes advancing, then back to Celeste, pleading in his expression. “You will not get another.”

She stared bewildered at Holmes and his outstretched hand for a moment. It would be akin to insubordination, leaving a crime scene like this. But on the other hand, leaving so loose a thread hanging would be a danger to everyone passing through Whitechapel. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Thatch to follow through eventually. It was more…

“Bugger the Office,” she swore suddenly while grabbing Holmes’ hand. His face lit with a delighted smile, and they practically leapt over the dead body to escape to the main thoroughfare, Watson following close behind. As the trio rounded the corner the spell ended and a squad of Liaison Officers entered the alley behind them, alongside a bellowing Thaddeus Grimm. 

By the time they noticed Celeste’s absence, she was well across several side streets, still hand in hand with Holmes. Watson didn’t mind his unexpected reassignment to third wheel. He had a feeling the night would take a turn for the entertaining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is being safe and staying strong. It's scary out there, but hopefully the fanfic is warm and inviting.
> 
> I do feel the need to apologize for creating a main character who is a law enforcement officer with violent tendencies. I am sorry, and I understand completely if you need to peace out on this series because it no longer vibes. I will say Celeste's complicated, not-entirely-positive relationship to the Office is being explored and will be explored further. I do often use this fic verse to examine my biases & feelings. (Celeste & Sherlock talked about privilege and culpability in their first conversation after all.)
> 
> And to those begging for more romance between those two, you have no idea how you've warmed the cockles of my heart. Celeste was created at a time when the SH fandom was more suspicious of OCs, & OC shipping more so. And now that her story is being told, it's wonderful to see people invested in that story. These two babies are still figuring themselves out, so it might take a while, but it is coming. Think of this as the angsty middle story in the trilogy. I won't let you down.


	9. The Vestibule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trio take a moment to regroup before sailing into uncharted territory.

Two main streets, three side streets, five back alleys, and one coal shed later; Holmes, Watson, and Lefay were standing in front of the rickety staircase to a flat so small it could be mistaken for a broom cupboard.

Celeste and Watson voiced their concerns simultaneously.

“Are you serious?”

“This cannot be the place.”

“Of course it’s not,” said Holmes, a little sheepish. “It’s a bolthole of mine. I thought we might need some freshening up before infiltrating the exclusive secret night club. Maybe catch our breath, shall we?” He gestured to the stairs and despite some skeptical glances from Watson, they all ascended.

Inside was a one-room apartment mostly taken up by racks of clothing. There was a serviceable, if lumpy, sofa near the entrance, a tiny stove, and a vanity littered with stage makeup. Near the back the door to the washroom was ajar. As they all entered, Holmes closed the door behind them and immediately set to puttering, lighting the stove, filling a kettle for tea, setting up a folded screen, and clearing the vanity enough for a basin and pitcher. Celeste and Watson flopped on the sofa, sharing bemused looks.

“May it never be said Sherlock Holmes was not a gracious host,” joked Watson. Celeste laughed and watched Holmes dole out cups of tea with her twisted smirk. He grinned back before whirling around to lean on the vanity.

“While we take some respite here, let us organize the facts of our cases. Watson and I are looking into the social habits of an ambassador’s half-Fae nephew. Said nephew is young, aimless, and frustrated, and we’ve been employed to make sure his indulgences are not harmful. Officer Lefay has been tasked with apprehending Jack the Ripper but instead found a mediocre young man Hexed into a self-destructive rage monster.” Holmes held up the two matchbooks from Dominique’s. “They have both been to the same club within the same week, and there are some similarities in their personalities I think we all find disquieting. The connection is purely circumstantial at this stage, but all roads currently lead to Dominique’s, and I see no reason why we can’t widen our mission save young Blake from the same fate as Mr. Keanes. So,” He clapped his hands for emphasis. “I suggest we all assail the club together. Watson and I have invitations, which I’m sure you can replicate for yourself, Leopard.”

At Holmes’ nod, Watson fished out the invitations from their bag. Celeste looked over the simply designed cards, holding them up to the light. “I’m flattered by your faith in me, but I unfortunately can’t create another one of these _ex nihilo_.” She handed the papers back to Watson. “There’s a specific charm on them. It’s very subtle, but has the charm has to be released by its caster. They will probably be standing at the door, preventing any forgeries. Fairly common procedure among high-class Fae establishments.” Holmes swore under his breath.

“If I might offer a suggestion,” said Watson. “Miss Lefay can take my invitation.”

“Watson, don’t be preposterous,” Holmes spluttered. 

“Are you sure, Doctor?” Celeste asked, inquisitive.

“My war injuries have already been put through their paces tonight. I wouldn’t be much for speed or force if the need should arise,” he explained. “Which I’m sure Officer Lefay can meet that need just as well. And since you have half the Liaison Office on your heels, I volunteer to lay in wait outside the club and keep watch.”

Holmes paused to contemplate the new option. “I suppose, if you think that is a safe position to take alone. You will be on a street corner, by yourself, in _Whitechapel_.” 

Celeste got the distinct impression that tonight Holmes would rather keep his friends either by his side or safe at home, so they all were spared more worrying for each other’s safety. Watson gave him a reassuring smile before rising to rifle through the racks of clothing. He found a tattered, motheaten military greatcoat and draped it around his shoulders. “My acting skills may be limited compared to the both of you, but the parts I can play, I play quite well. Including pitiful yet forgettable veteran.” He dropped his chin to his chest and half-mumbled, half-snored like some poor vagrant sleeping off his liquor. Holmes snickered in spite of himself, and Celeste gave a full-throated laugh. 

Watson turned to her, still swimming in the coat. “Would it trouble you too much to put a two-way Warning Charm on mine and Holmes’ pocket watch? That way we can at least let the other know of emergency while remaining discreet.”

“I won’t have time to make it permanent,” she said while taking their watches. “But that can be done at a Jinxery later. The function will be similar to how the Office monitors its agents.” A quick look to Holmes, who nodded.

As Celeste worked a simple spell over the watches in her lap, Watson turned to Holmes. “One thing I don’t understand is the aether bulb on Ghoulston. If Any and all Rippers were Hexed humans, what purpose would the potion serve?”

Holmes looked up from the trunks where he was fishing out accessories for Watson’s disguise. “That was the night there were two murders?” Watson nodded. “Thought so. You saw the way Keanes looked during the fight. If his enchanter wanted more than one victim, either he or his puppet would need to maintain the façade of a functioning human after the first kill. If we had a chemical analysis of the Aethrial applicator, it might yield evidence of some sort of glamour.”

“And that is a thought I guarantee did not cross Toby Grimm’s mind,” Celeste said, rising from her seat and returning the two pocket watches to their respective owners. “He’s decisive and cunning when it calls for it, but he doesn’t always wait for every detail.”

“Maybe next time, it would serve Director Grimm better to give you the command, and he the frock,” Holmes said dryly as he retrieved a dinner jacket from the racks of clothing. Celeste smirked before downing her tea as Watson coughed to hide a chuckle. Holmes weaved between them to hang his new wardrobe on a changing screen before gesturing to the Officer. “Leopard, I assume you would prefer a change of costume and some refreshing before Dominiques’. Consider my bolthole wardrobe open to whatever disguise you feel fitting. I’m sure there are a couple gowns you might find suitable.”

Celeste rummaged quickly through the clothes before grabbing an armful. “I’ve heard Dominique’s is quite the Bohemian establishment.” She peeked out from the bathroom doorway with her crooked smile. “So do bear in mind one lady’s ‘suitable’ is another man’s scandal.” Holmes smirked as she closed the door.

The two men, left to their own devices, took turns perfecting their costumes. Watson patiently sat as Holmes dabbed some makeup on his face, giving the appearance of sunken eyes and a ruddy drunken nose. The periodic nervous glances his artist kept shooting toward the water closet door did not go unnoticed.

“Are you afraid she escaped down the drain?”

A sigh and a Look from Holmes. “No. I had expected to walk into the club with the three of us. Now I have to consider issues of propriety.”

“When have you ever concerned yourself with issues of propriety? Particularly where that one is concerned.” Watson asked incredulously.

“I’ve not made much study of the Good Book, but I do remember something about prophets and having difficulty in their hometowns.”

Watson chuckled. “You’ll be fine. If ever you needed a place to ‘express friendship free of societal pressure’, this club sounds like the place.” He spared his own concerned glance at the washroom. “I do hope you find the real Ripper. For her sake.”

“I am gambling with someone else’s pocketbook, aren’t I?”

“Perhaps Thaddeus Grimm will be in a merciful mood should you help uncover the truth.” A click from the door. “Look lively, my friend.”

The men stood as Celeste joined them. She wore a similar dinner suit to Holmes, though perfectly tailored to her form. A thin violet lace shawl served as a cravat, with a silver sunburst pinning it in place. Her heeled shoes and curled hair remained, though the frizz had been tamed and molded into a smooth cascade of curls spilling over her shoulder. Any evidence of her earlier fight had vanished from her face, either from glamour or healing. She stood casually, hands in her pockets, the pommels of her knives just peeking from under her waistcoat.

“A fitting scandal,” said Watson warmly.

It was several seconds before Holmes remembered to speak. “You kept the ribbon in your hair.” An observation and a question.

Celeste shrugged. “It still has a charm on it. I thought it might be advantageous to be underestimated tonight.” She and Watson shared a grin as she strode forward to pin her flowers to Holmes’ lapel. “And Derryn, you could do to be underestimated a bit as well.”

The moon was still high as the trio left the bolt hole. They kept to side streets and shadows, quiet but congenial. As they walked down closer to the Thames, ethereal golden lights danced in the distance. A building emerged from the fog. It was a common brick warehouse with tall thin windows and pulleys by the river. It should have seemed ordinary, but with the fog, the lights, and the dark night, the place came alive with excitement and glamorous mystery. There was no sign to designate the had arrived, but three black lacquered circles were nailed inside a square above the entrance.

Peeking from behind a corner, Holmes picked a quiet yet advantageous spot for Watson to sit and observe. Then he stumbled out, sloshing a gin bottle filled with water and slurring an old army song before plopping into position. Celeste and Holmes suppressed laughter as they watched before circling around the block to approach from a different direction. Away from the wondrous light of Dominique’s, the two fell into step together as the tone grew more serious, anticipating the task ahead. Holmes inspected the chambers of his revolver as Celeste checked her knives. He spared a glance at her work, noting a familiar pattern.

“So a Hex on inanimate objects is more acceptable than humans, I see,” he said.

She smiled. “A Hex is the magic compulsion to complete a task, something far simpler and more ethical to impose on an object without free will.” She offered him her knife. “This one I particularly prefer.” Amid the violet pattern that flashed on the knife was an inscription. _Bring lightning to deeds done in darkness._

“Fitting,” he said while returning it. Celeste holstered her weapon. “Sometimes. My flatmate once Hexed our broom to follow me after work when I tracked in filth.”

“Did that last long?”

“Only until I found a hatchet in the shed.”

Once again, the looming figure of the warehouse stood before them. They paused and took a collective breath. Holmes handed her one of the masks before donning his own. Others were trickling into the doorway, similarly masked and hooded and veiled. Holmes found Watson sitting on the curb and nodded his acknowledgement. 

Celeste slipped her arm inside his, looking up at him with determination. “Derryn.”

He shot a reassuring look back. “Leopard.” And with that, they walked into the dream that was Dominique’s


End file.
